


Growing Colder

by danielosbourne



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Christmas, Christmas Party, First Meetings, Hurt/Comfort, Jewish Bucky Barnes, M/M, Minor Clint Barton/Natasha Romanov, Parent Death, Past Bucky Barnes/Sam Wilson, Pre-Serum Steve Rogers, Rating May Change, Snowed In, Steve Rogers Needs a Hug, shrinkyclinks
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-16
Updated: 2021-01-22
Packaged: 2021-03-10 22:08:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,801
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28104456
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/danielosbourne/pseuds/danielosbourne
Summary: Steve wakes up with all signs pointing to today being the day that breaks him.If only people would stop being so fucking kind.
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Steve Rogers
Comments: 3
Kudos: 59





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I was definitely not going to start posting this until I was done editing (ideally sometime before Christmas?) BUT Winter Storm Gail has me motivated to get this first chapter out a little early. To all those in it's path: wishing you warmth and safety and a truly epic snow day. Here's a tropey winter fic to keep you busy while you're hunkered down.
> 
> To all the Clint Barton stans: it's possible this version of Clint is based much more on a former roommate of mine than canon. Apologies! (Unless you happen to prefer your Clint a little day-drunk.)

Boiler’s out. It’s the coldest day of the year, naturally. And nearly Christmas. Steve’s gonna have a hell of a time trying to get a repair guy out before the holiday, if he can even afford one. Jesus, him and Clint are going to freeze to death. Six months of being an orphan and he’s already failing the basics. They’ll die of exposure in the middle of fucking Brooklyn.

“Clint!” yells Steve, banging on his bedroom door. It’s half past eight in the morning, which is hardly much later than Clint goes to bed most days. He opens the door to check if Clint came home last night, and sees him face up and starfished on the mattress, dressed in last night’s clothes, which fortunately included a coat. Steve weaves through the laundry piles and take-out containers.

“Clint, get up.”

He doesn’t, but his left eye twitches.

Steve connects his phone to the Bluetooth speaker at Clint’s bedside and presses play. _Last Christmas_ should do it.

“Fuuuuuck,” groans Clint.

Leaving Clint to reanimate on his own, Steve starts digging through the kitchen for a maintenance number to call. He knows his mom used to keep a stack of business cards somewhere. Under the tower of empty pizza boxes? On the souvenir tray from Atlantic City with all the mail marked ‘Final Notice?’ Christ, this place is depressing. Steve can be neat, when he has the time. But months of 60-hour work weeks and taking on a human natural disaster for a roommate has the space looking apocalyptic.

“Motherfucker,” grunts Clint. He emerges from his room with his hood pulled up over his eyes, and his hands tucked stiffly into his armpits.

“Morning sunshine,” greets Steve.

“It’s fucking cold.”

“Boiler’s out.”

“ _Fuck_. It’s fucking freezing,” hisses Clint.

“I’m working on it,” says Steve, rifling through one of the junk drawers. Nothing but take-out menus and owner manuals.

“You can fix a boiler?”

“I’ll find someone who can.” Steve pulls out his phone to check his account balance. Damn. “In the meantime, I don’t think we can stay here.” The thermostat just dropped into the 40s, which is at least 30 degrees warmer than it is outside.

Steve hasn’t the faintest idea where to go. He might very well spend his first Christmas without his mom on the street. Catch a bit of frostbite from Father Christmas. Would be a cherry on top of this fucking year.

“I’ll text Nat,” grumbles Clint.

Somehow, despite spending most of his waking hours stoned, not having a steady job, and maintaining a pretty lax relationship with personal hygiene, Clint has a girlfriend. Natasha’s possibly the most attractive person Steve’s ever seen in real life, and definitely one of the scariest. Steve’s grateful that whatever they get up to tends to happen at her place. He can only imagine some kind of dungeon is involved.

Steve doesn’t have a girlfriend. Or boyfriend. On account of working three jobs, and a great deal of emotional baggage. What’s worse, he realizes as he scrolls his contacts for a couch to sleep on, he doesn’t really have _friends,_ either. A natural consequence of forgoing the college experience for fulltime caretaking followed by a grief spiral.

“Nat’s having, like, a bunch of people over,” says Clint. “So. You could come with me. If you want.”

For being a such a shitty roommate, Clint is not a completely a shitty human. He knows perfectly well that as much as Steve absolutely does not want to go to Natasha’s party, he’s not likely to have a lot of options.

“She won’t mind?”

“No way, dude. Nat loves you.”

Steve doubts Natasha remembers his name, but he’s desperate enough to play along.

He packs his warmest clothes in an overnight bag, hoping it’s unnecessary, then they take the world’s longest 5-mile bus ride to Flatbush. Clint spends most of it napping with his head lolled back on a grimy window. Between the bitter cold, morning commutes, and last-minute holiday shopping, the entire borough appears to be using public transportation this morning.

By the time they get off, Steve swears the temperature has dropped another ten degrees. That, and the block they’re on must funnel wind somehow because Steve has to bear down against it like one of those ill-advised storm reporters you see during hurricane coverage.

Natasha’s building has a courtyard _and_ a lobby. No doorman, but still. It’s a nice building. Clint must text her, because they’re buzzed up without greeting.

Steve would happily borrow a wifi password and do his home repair research from the cozy hallway smelling of breakfast foods, skipping over whatever awkwardness awaits him inside. But despite his desire to go full Scrooge this holiday, he struggles to rebel too hard against social norms until someone explicitly behaves like an asshole.

Clint can be a little chaotic, but he’s made an effort to be inclusive this morning even after Steve froze him out of his residence. And Natasha’s only scary because she looks at people like she knows their entire search history, but that hardly seems fair to hold against her without proof she’s a cybercriminal. Which doesn’t _seem_ impossible.

“Hey, fellas,” greets Natasha, opening her door before they can so much as knock.

Clint swoops in for an embrace that’s barely audience appropriate before Steve can say hey back.

Natasha’s apartment is…definitely not a sex dungeon. It’s the kind of cute pre-war gem you see a twenty-something inhabiting on a TV series knowing in real life they’d never be able to afford such a place. Not huge, but the bed’s in a whole separate room, so palatial by New York standards.

“Thanks for letting me tag along,” says Steve.

“I’m glad you came. Besides, this storm is supposed to be record setting. It’s good you got out of there.”

“Yeah. Um, would you mind if I hopped on your wifi? I gotta read up on boilers.”

“I’ll write down the password for you. And ask my friend Bucky about it when he gets here. He’s good with that stuff.”

“Boilers?”

“Maybe?” she says, raising her shoulders, “He’s pretty handy. Fixed my dishwasher when the super wouldn’t return my calls.”

Natasha having a handyman friend would be nothing short of a Christmas miracle, assuming the guy is willing to be paid in milk and cookies.

Steve powers up his laptop at the dining table, bracing for bad news while Clint’s supposedly helping Natasha in the kitchen. After trying pringle nachos one despairing night, Steve is wary of eating anything Clint has a role in prepping, but hopefully Natasha’s culinary skills are in stark contrast to his…like seemingly everything else about the two of them.

Boilers, it turns out, are obscenely expensive. The price of homeownership doesn’t shock him the way it did when he first took over the bills from his mom, but he’s not numb to it either. The house is all he has left of her, and month by month, it’s slipping away. Extra shifts, side jobs, Clint moving in—it won’t be enough if these kinds repairs start accumulating. It’s barely enough to keep the lights on as it is.

He searches down the familiar bank loan rabbit hole, knowing it’s hopeless with all the leftover medical bills and that fucking semester at Pratt he’s still paying off.

If he were home, he could take advantage of the house’s single luxurious feature and draw himself a steaming hot bath in the clawfoot tub. Poor himself a glass of whatever’s around and have a good long cry.

“You want a peanut butter sandwich?” asks Natasha, poking her head out of the kitchen. “We’re putting together a charcuterie board for when people get here, and Sam’s bringing over a whole porchetta later. So, I promise we’ll feed you up right, I just thought you might need something to tide you over.”

“Wow. Yeah, thanks, a sandwich sounds good.”

Steve has only the vaguest clue as to what _charcuterie_ and _porchetta_ are, but it’s a far cry from the red Solo cups and cheese puffs he was expecting. He’s suddenly worried he’s underdressed, except Clint has two gaping holes in the armpits of his Beastie Boys tee, so maybe Nat’s not a total snob about guest attire.

“Here ya go,” Natasha says, sliding a plate in front of him. She’s cut the sandwich into triangles and impaled them with little Santa toothpicks. It gets a smile out of Steve.

“Thank you.”

“You’re welcome. Let me know if you need anything else.”

“Want a beer to go with that?” asks Clint, waving a bottle.

“It’s not even noon,” Steve points out.

“Yeah, but this is, uh, oatmeal stout?” Clint explains, studying the label, “It’s like, breakfast beer.”

“Thanks, but maybe just water for me?”

Natasha’s smiling at Clint like he’s freaking adorable. Wonders never cease.

Steve hasn’t eaten since waking up in the Arctic, so the sandwich is a godsend. An empty stomach only ever exacerbates his anxiety, and he was in need of a break anyway.

Steve’s cleaning his plate when another guest arrives. Natasha must run an entire security system on ESP, because Steve swears he never heard a knock.

“Good, you’re here!” he hears her say.

“Yep. Got a space heater I can borrow?” asks a man’s voice.

“Let me grab it. Steve’s in the kitchen.”

Steve freezes, wondering why on earth this stranger needs his location.

“Steve?” the man calls, getting closer.

He turns to see a huge figure in a hooded jacket, face mostly obscured by a tightly wrapped scarf.

“…Yes?”

“I’m Bucky. Nat said you got a boiler issue?”

“Oh, um. It’s not a big deal. You don’t have to—” Steve stops, because he has no idea what this guy is offering.

“I mean, we’re in for a few days of subzero temps, so it might be kind of a big deal for your pipes.”

“Yeah…yeah,” Steve agrees, dread swirling in his chest “It’s just, you don’t even know me, you don’t have to help me.”

Bucky’s eyes crinkle like maybe he’s smiling. Or wincing. It’s impossible to tell.

“You’re Nat’s friend,” he says simply, “And seriously, this storm is gonna be bad. You’ll be on the hook for a lot more than a boiler if your water valve or sewer line gets damaged.”

Fuck, that does sound worse. And he can’t even explain that he’s actually just Nat’s boyfriend’s roommate, and therefor under no friend-of-a-friend obligation because Natasha’s back with her space heater, grinning at the both of them like she’s just solved world hunger.

“This all you need?” she asks Bucky, handing him heater.

“You don’t happen to have a couple gallons of anti-freeze hanging around, do you?”

“Fresh out,” she shrugs apologetically.

“This’ll do then” says Bucky, turning back to Steve, “You ready to go?”

“You want to go to my house? Now?”

“Did you bring the boiler with you?” asks Bucky, eyes crinkled.

“Uh, no.”

“Then let’s go,” says Bucky, hoisting the space heater under his arm, “Nat wants us back for dinner.”

Steve scrambles to get his coat, chasing Bucky out into the hallway.

“Wait, Bucky, wait!”

“Yeah?”

“Listen, it’s very, _very_ kind of you to offer to help. But, uh,” Steve lowers his voice to a whisper, “I honestly don’t know if I can afford your help.”

“Steve,” Bucky pulls down his scarf so he can whisper back—and _whoa_ , hot people really do run in packs— “I’m not licensed to do any of this, okay? I don’t have the insurance or certificates an appliance repair company would. I don’t even know how much I’ll be able to fix. You’re a friend of Nat’s, and assuming you celebrate Christmas, exploding sewage pipes would make for a shitty one, literally. This is a favor.”

“That’s—that’s kind of you, but I can get by on my own,” insists Steve one last time, blinking back irrational, humiliating tears.

Bucky doesn’t look alarmed by Steve’s outburst. He sets down the heater and gets a firm grip on Steve’s shoulder,

“Thing is, you don’t have to.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hoping to have this completed & up by Christmas. Because for some reason I've written another Christmas fic? (Fun fact: I am Jewish.)


	2. Chapter 2

“Pink or blue?” asks Steve.

“How many bathrooms you got?”

“Just one.”

“Right. So, we’ll need…three?” Bucky works through the mysterious calculation in his head, counting on gloved fingers, “Three of the pink.”

Steve pulls three jugs of the strangely cheerful looking antifreeze from the shelf, and tries to ignore the way being bossed around in a hardware store is doing things for him. Home improvement expertise is his kink now. Adulthood is full of surprises.

Bucky picks out an assortment of buckets, and when they meet up at the register, Steve refuses to blink handing over his debit card. After his mini freak out in Natasha’s hallway and Bucky paying for the Lyft back to Red Hook, he’s got to retain whatever scraps of dignity he can.

The chill on the street is like nothing he can remember. The moisture in his eyes feels like it’s crystalizing between blinks, and his lungs stutter against each icy inhale a way they haven’t since his worst bouts of childhood asthma. There’s not even any snow to redeem the hostility of it all. When they arrive at the house, the inside is practically balmy at 30 degrees.

“Nice place,” says Bucky.

Steve frowns, thinking he’s being sarcastic, but Bucky’s running a hand over the window moulding like it’s fine cashmere. There are many architectural wonders in Brooklyn, but this little duplex in Red Hook ain’t one of them. It’s just old. Steve likes to think it’s got a certain charm though—if chipped brick and drafty floors are charming.

“Thank you. Sorry about the mess, I haven’t had a lot of time off lately. Uh, that’s the original moulding. The house was built in 1931. My parents were only the second owners, so I’ve lived here my whole life.”

“Yeah? You’re lucky.”

Steve’s eyes fall to the loose floorboard where he’s stubbed more toes than he can count, “It was just like growing up at the Four Seasons.”

“No, I mean, staying in one place. I moved around a lot growing up. It must be nice to live in a house that feels like a home.”

 _It is_ , Steve wants to say. But he’s only known Bucky an hour and already cried in front of him once, so he really can’t afford to lose it again thinking about how much he loves this nonagenarian money pit of a house where his mother raised him or how much it would break his heart to lose it.

“Where’d all you live?” he asks instead.

Bucky lists naval bases up and down both coasts, expressing love for California and deep antipathy for New Jersey. His whole family is back in New York now after his dad retired from the Navy—and once Bucky gets talking about his family, he doesn’t stop. Even as he starts instructing Steve on how to dilute and dispense the antifreeze, he’s dropping in stories all the different room sharing scenarios he’s had to accommodate over the years with his sisters.

And really, it’s been too long since Steve’s had a conversation of any length with someone besides Clint, especially since those tend to revolve around strange food combinations or hypothetical superpowers. Bucky’s storytelling makes disaster prep more enjoyable than anticipated, and he’s got enough charisma that by the time they’ve made it to the basement Steve finds himself wholly entranced in a boiler disassembly lesson.

Despite his claim that he’s not a professional, Bucky’s draining water, inspecting vents and loosening valves like he does this daily. There’s something odd about the way he moves though, and it takes a moment before Steve realizes it’s because he’s doing everything one handed, and an even longer moment to realize it’s because the other hand is missing. The left sleeve of his thick parka hangs empty. Of course, now that Steve’s noticed the only thing to do is aggressively pretend like he hasn’t. There’s definitely no polite way to inquire about a missing limb, and Steve’s more impressed than curious anyway.

“How do you know how to do all this?” he asks, “Natasha said you fixed her dishwasher too.”

“YouTube.”

“Seriously?”

“That’s how it started. Then I was a carpenter’s apprentice for a bit, and now I’m working on my engineering degree. But Nat’s dishwasher was definitely a YouTube tutorial.”

“Wow. So you like to…fix stuff,” says Steve. Like an idiot.

Bucky grins, “I do. I like to build stuff, too. As a kid, my dream was to build my own house someday. I had it all planned out. Guest rooms for each of my sisters, a play area for all the dogs I was gonna adopt, a wood fired pizza oven out back like Gwyneth Paltrow has.”

Steve laughs, “You a big fan?”

“Of her pizza oven situation, yeah.”

Bucky goes quiet then, his brow furrowing as he feels up and down a particular pipe. He picks up the wrench he salvaged from the ancient assortment of basement tools, and after a bit of motion a large chunk of cast iron clunks to the floor.

“You want the good news or bad first?” Bucky asks, staring after the part.

“Bad?”

“Your circulator pump is broken and the boiler can’t distribute heat without it. You’ll need it replaced.”

Steve sighs, “And the good news?”

“Circulator pumps are a lot cheaper than boilers. A few hundred bucks instead of a few thousand,” Bucky supplies with manufactured optimism.

Steve stares out at the water-stained foundation wall, running through familiar calculations in his head: ramen dinners, extra shifts. He could try resuscitating his Patreon. Pet portraits had been lucrative for a bit, but how would he make the time?

“Sorry it’s not something I can fix,” adds Bucky.

Guilt crashes through Steve’s self-pity, “God, no. You’ve already done me such a huge favor. I’m just so over my head trying to hang on to this house, you have no idea.”

“Let me ask around before you order anything. I know a few renovators, and you can pull good parts off of old appliances before they’re sold for scrap. I might be able to find you something.”

“That would be—that would be amazing. But I’ve got to be honest with you, I barely know Natasha. Like, we’ve met twice. Including today.”

Bucky tilts his head in confusion.

“It’s just, I know you’re doing this because you think I’m a friend of hers, and I’m barely an acquaintance. So, seriously, you don’t have to inconvenience yourself on my account.”

“Nat’s a pretty good judge of character, Steve. If she considers you a friend then I do too. And it’s no inconvenience. I meant it when I said I’m into this stuff,” Bucky says, rapping a fist on the busted cylinder.

“Well, thank you. For everything. I hate how useless I am with all this. Makes it hard to accept the help I _know_ I need. But I’m very grateful.” Steve usually makes an effort to avoid therapy speak in the real world, but he’s sure the fact that he’s dealing with a multi-layered crisis has not escaped Bucky.

Bucky, who once again reaches out for Steve’s shoulder, “Believe me, pal. I get it.”

They leave the space heater facing the exposed pipes, and Bucky calls another rideshare to get them back to Natasha’s.

It’s finally started to snow—so lightly—just enough to make the sidewalks slick and sooty. Snow always makes the city worse before it makes it better. But Steve’s a firm believer that snow does make everything better, eventually.

***

The smell gets stronger as they approach Natasha’s door. Steve has no words for it, only it threatens to float him through the door like a hungry cartoon character.

“Nat invited Sam, I see,” mutters Bucky. He doesn’t sound impressed.

“Sam? Sam with the pancetta?”

Bucky gives a rueful smile, “Porchetta? Yeah, that’s the one.”

“Whatever it is, it’s the best thing I’ve ever smelled,” admits Steve.

“Yeah, it’s the best thing you’ll ever taste, too.”

“But you don’t like Sam?”

Bucky shrugs, “He’s fine. It’s just that Nat’s been trying to aggressively set us up since we met and—and, it’s just not like that.”

“Oh,” says Steve, a little confused as to whether that was a clue about Bucky’s sexuality or not.

“Have you ever had, like, _so_ much sexual tension with a person, but then you have sex and realize it was just regular tension?”

Definitely a clue, then. Although the universe in which Steve had a sex life is a distant memory at this point, but it was never anything worthy of a cable drama storyline. He shakes his head.

“Yeah, well. Nat’s good at reading people, and her intentions are good—usually. But her sense of attraction or whatever is totally warped.”

Steve laughs, because while he doesn’t feel fully qualified to agree, everything he knows of Clint and Natasha’s relationship points to “warped sense of attraction.”

“So, is tonight gonna be super awkward for you?” he asks.

“Nah. I’m pretty sure Sam’s seeing some guy in the Army now, so she’ll back off. Probably. Just can’t let her decide the seating arrangements. And watch out for rogue mistletoe,” Bucky warns, ushering Steve through the unlocked entrance.

In addition to whatever’s roasting in the oven, candlelight and a few extra guests have transformed Natasha’s apartment into something fully festive. The charcuterie board has made an appearance, with Clint camped out nearby. Steve’s introduced to Wanda, which he would have guessed was Natasha’s sister if not for the thick unfamiliar accent, and then to Sam, who’s vibrating with the very specific energy of someone preparing a high stakes holiday meal.

Steve watches the snow continue to flurry through the window, feeling lighter than he has all day. He sucks in a deep breath, knowing that the grief is right there under the surface waiting to consume him. But these people, new and strange as they are to him, are providing more relief and distraction than he would have thought possible under the circumstances.

“Do you like Jarlsberg?” asks Natasha, handing Steve a small plate of offerings.

“I think so?”

“Bucky says you’ll need a place to stay tonight.”

“Oh. Yeah, I do, but—”

“Stay here. I’ve got an air mattress, but if the couch is more your style, you’re welcome to it.”

Steve suppresses the instinct to argue. Not that he’s ever been one to shy away from a losing battle for the sake of pride, but there’s just so precious little left to salvage.

Sensing his resolve fading, Natasha flashes a smile.

Steve accepts a glass of wine to go with dinner—something he rarely indulges in because it makes him flush red like the flames of hell, but that’s the least of his problems tonight. Nat sets his glass down at the seat next to Bucky’s, who stripped of his outerwear is almost offensively handsome. The sort of handsome that make picking up in demand skills like household plumbing and engineering seem utterly superfluous—being kind to hopeless strangers even more so.

Steve remembers the warning about letting Natasha pick the seating arrangements, but Sam’s stuck on the other end of the table carving up his oversized roast, so Steve figures she must have surrendered. Bucky casts an apologetic glance his way, although Steve doesn’t know why he should mind being a buffer for the evening—everyone’s been perfectly civil. Sam even sends Bucky the first cut of meat.

Steve’s Ma never cooked anything fancier than a baked chicken for Christmas, it being just the two of them. A few years when she’d been stuck with the holiday shift they’d just ordered Chinese for their annual _Miracle on 34 th Street_ re-watch instead. He’d give anything for one more boring Christmas dinner with her, but that doesn’t mean he can’t appreciate the magic that Sam’s achieved here tonight. This meal is better than anything Steve’s ever eaten in a restaurant, and he tells Sam as much.

The company’s nice too, if a bit random. Even Clint’s particular brand of weirdness turns endearing when he tells the story of how he met Natasha falling off a rock wall at the gym.

When the food settles and the conversation winds down Steve’s eager to offer his help with the dishes, desperate to finally be useful. Bucky eventually joins him, a little more reserved now than he had been elbow deep in a defective boiler. They stand shoulder to shoulder, wordlessly achieving a wash-dry system.

Through the window the snow is falling heavier now, quieting the streets. That is, until all the phones in the apartment shriek with the same MTA alert.

_All New York City Transit will stop operating as of 10pm due to inclement weather, please plan your travel accordingly._


	3. Chapter 3

“Rock, paper, scissors,” suggests Clint, “Best out of three.”

“You two go for it, I’m fine on the floor,” says Bucky, sorting through the pile of linens Nat dumped on the rug.

“Bucky, no. I’m the party crasher—let me take the floor,” Steve pleads.

“No one’s a party crasher,” interjects Nat fiercely, searching for outlet within reach to inflate the air mattress, “Or technically you’re all party crashers. I didn’t plan on a sleep-over.”

“I got a perfectly good couch at my place,” Sam repeats, lingering at the front door after an extended farewell.

“No,” growls Bucky.

“Maybe I wasn’t talking to you, Barnes. Maybe Steve doesn’t want to listen to you snore all night.”

“Oh, uh…” Steve, looks stricken at having to choose between being impolite and accepting another favor from another stranger.

“Nah, stay here,” says Bucky, saving Steve the trouble, “It’ll be fun. A slumber party, like Nat said.”

Bucky has doubts about the potential for fun, but poor Steve is clearly not up for one more change of plans this late in the day. Also, Bucky knows from experience Sam’s roommate doesn’t _love_ unexpected guests, but presumably he’d be cooler about it if there’s no chance of walking in on a kitchen suck-job.

“Suit yourselves,” relents Sam, tucking his huge Tupperware of leftovers under his arm, “I’m just down the hall if anyone changes their mind.”

It doesn’t make a difference to Bucky where he sleeps. They’re all being good sports, but he doubts anyone is going to be getting a good night’s rest given the circumstances. Steve continues to lobby for the floor, determined to punish himself for having a shitty day. Or possibly a shitty week or month or year. Bucky can recognize a losing streak when he sees one. He doesn’t have Sam’s counseling degree, or Nat’s mind reading ability, but at least he was able to prevent the guy from going home to leaked sewage.

Reluctantly, Bucky accepts the air mattress, but only if Steve will take the extra comforter to make his floor pallet a little softer.

He’s not missed Nat hinting that there might be something _else_ he can do for Steve, but he doesn’t entirely trust her track record on that front. He’s opposed to the principle if not to Steve.

She’d unleashed Sam on him when he was just barely back on his feet from the accident, his judgement and self-worth still wonky. Bucky would have fucked anyone who looked at him twice without bringing up his arm back then. And in that sense maybe he’s lucky it was Sam, who has horrible taste in television and cares way too much about the right way to clean a cast iron skillet, but at least never took advantage.

The way melancholy radiates off Steve wards Bucky off as much as it draws him in. He’s clearly in desperate need of an ally or two and prickly as hell about it. It’s frustratingly relatable.

“What are y’all doing in there?” Clint shouts at the girls, who have dibs on Nat’s much more accommodating bedroom for the night.

“Going to bed,” Nat shouts back.

“Not even doing a mask first? Did I miss the skincare routine?”

Natasha emerges from her room with a smirk and hands Clint a small iridescent jar, “Knock yourself out,” she says, leaning down to kiss him goodnight. She turns to Steve and Bucky adding, “Get some beauty rest, boys.”

“This,” says Clint, holding up the jar, “is one of the best parts about having a girlfriend, I swear.”

Clint is slathering his face with gel, then passes it to Bucky like he’s passing a joint. Which frankly would make a lot more sense.

But Steve’s grinning at the both of them—the first real smile Bucky’s seen from him today—so he dips in a finger experimentally. This feels at least slightly less silly than all the times his sisters have come after him with their make-up over the years. The goo tingles on his skin.

He passes the jar to Steve next, who gamely applies a layer of his own.

“What now?” asks Bucky.

Clint shrugs and takes a sip of his beer, stretching out against the back of the couch.

Bucky turns his attention back to Steve, following his line of sight to the window. The curtains are open to reveal the snow coming down in sheets of white against the dimly lit alley. Frost creeps across the glass like something Bucky only recognizes from movies and paintings.

“Incredible storm,” says Bucky.

“Beautiful,” Steve replies dreamily, then realizing himself, “But, sorry you weren’t able to get home tonight.”

“No worries. I’m mostly Jewish, anyway. No big plans tomorrow. I’ll get home when it’s safe to.”

“ _Mostly_ Jewish?”

“Well, my dad’s not, but he’s not much of anything else either. I sometimes catch him singing ‘O Holy Night’ in the shower this time of year. That’s about all the Christmas I grew up with.”

“That _is_ the best Christmas song,” Steve nods decisively.

“Not ‘Silent Night?’”

“Definitely in the same vein, but I don’t know how you can beat ‘ _long lay the world in sin and error, pining_ ,’ followed by ‘ _a thrill of hope, the weary world rejoices_.’ That song hits deeper than twelve years of Sunday school ever did.”

Steve’s been nursing his second glass of wine for a while, but hearing him warble through Christmas lyrics makes Bucky think it’s having some kind of effect. He’s adorable, tipsy and pink cheeked and shiny with goo.

“Hey, does your face itch?” says Steve, scrunching his nose.

“Not really, does—oh.”

The pink in Steve’s cheeks is spreading across his face and down his neck, alongside swollen splotches of a much more alarming fuchsia.

“Shit, Steve!” On instinct Bucky reaches for him, dragging him up and stumbling them both into Nat’s tiny bathroom.

“Fuuuck,” Steve groans to the mirror.

Bucky soaks the closest towel and attacks Steve’s face with it, wiping the gelatinous mask off as quickly as he can. They’re a mess, dripping water everywhere, and not particularly gentle on Steve who’s cursing as he blindly claws off what he can. After a minute of frantic scrubbing, Steve’s shoulders are shaking and for one horrible moment Bucky’s afraid he’s crying but then he straightens out to reveal a hysteric sort of grin.

“Fuck this fucking day,” he wheezes out through the laughter.

Bucky laughs too, because hugging him would be weird even though it feels more appropriate.

“What is happening?” asks a wide-eyed Natasha from the doorway.

“He had a reaction. To the face mask.”

“Do you have any Benadryl?” Steve asks dazedly. His is skin already looking less angry now that they’ve wiped it clean.

Natasha finds some, long expired but Steve takes a double dose and sits down on the toilet to wait out the full effects.

“Scared the hell out of me,” admits Bucky sliding down the wall to sit across from him.

“Sorry.”

“So not your fault.”

“I’m just glad Bucky was here to take care of you,” says Natasha, subtlety be damned.

Bucky glares at her as Steve visibly bristles.

“Wake me up for the next emergency,” she adds before heading back to the bedroom.

“Did Clint just…fall asleep through all of that?” Bucky wonders.

“Probably,” Steve shrugs with effort, “He slept through the mariachi band at our neighbor’s 50th birthday party. And he did have an early morning.”

Clint and Steve make for an odd pairing, even as roommates born of necessity. Steve’s obviously got the weight of the world on his shoulders, and Clint’s more the sort to not know what day of the week it is.

“Thank you. _Again_ ,” mutters Steve, too exhausted to hide his bitterness, “I’m good now. If you want to go to sleep or whatever. Sorry I ruined the slumber party.”

“You didn’t ruin anything. And I barely helped. Only thing I wanna do now is get this shit off my face.”

Steve hands him the sopping towel, frowning.

“What Natasha said—about you taking care of me—she’s right. And I know I’m being an asshole about it, but I kind of owe surviving the day to you. It’s just, apparently I’m a twenty-one-year-old _baby_ and it’s hard and humiliating to accept.”

“Damnit, Steve. Listen,” Bucky starts, trying and failing not to sound a little pissed, “No one thinks you’re a baby. You’ve had a shit run of luck, but who hasn’t?” Bucky clumsily gestures to his missing arm to demonstrate. “I’m not gonna shut up and let your pipes explode or your face fall off just so you can feel like a tough guy. And Nat—for the record—is just trying to get you laid. I’m not anyone’s fucking babysitter.”

Steve’s face does a lot of things at once and then nothing at all, staring at Bucky like he’s grown a second head.

“Can—can you explain the last part of what you just said?” asks Steve, his voice pitched unusually high.

Bucky sighs, “It’s just a thing she does sometimes.”

“Trying to get me laid?!”

“Not just you, but yeah. She tries to pair off all of her friends at one point or another. Hatches a plot when you’re at your most vulnerable.”

“So, Nat thinks,” Steve narrows his eyes, “You. You and me?”

It’s not quite a question, but Bucky nods anyway.

“Because—because she’s got a warped sense of attraction?” And that’s not really a question either, but the hint of self-loathing and dismissal and weariness in Steve’s voice pisses Bucky off all over again.

“Look, tomorrow I’m gonna find you that replacement part. And, I dunno, maybe when your house is all warmed up, and the trains are running and it doesn’t feel like the world is ending we can figure out how warped it is for ourselves.”

Obviously, getting Steve’s home in a safe, livable condition is a bigger priority than anything else Bucky’s putting on the table. And it’s impossible to tell if Steve’s remotely interested in anything beyond his handyman skills, but he thinks maybe Steve could use the assurance that Steve’s _worth_ considering. That Bucky finds him worth considering.

Steve’s back to looking dazed and more than a little exhausted.

Bucky stands before offering Steve a hand up, “C’mon. Let’s get some sleep.”

Steve gives Bucky's hand the briefest squeeze before following him back out to the living room. They settle into their make-shift beds and wordlessly watch the snow fall.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So...I missed my Xmas deadline and let myself get distracted by 1000 other things, but heyyyyy! Here's an update! Pretty sure time has no meaning anymore anyway.

Bucky has to get himself all the way to Queens and back to Steve’s place in Red Hook. On Christmas Eve. In the aftermath of a blizzard. Trains are running a limited service, heavily delayed, so it takes most of the day and the guy he found with the spare circulating pump isn’t even willing to part with it for free, but he happily lies to Steve about each and every inconvenience when they meet up at the house late that afternoon.

The basement kept downright cozy thanks to the space heater, and a quick inspection reveals good news for the state of Steve’s pipes. Replacing the pump is easy enough work, though Steve watches with the intensity of someone observing a novel surgical procedure. Bucky would have a real opportunity to show off if Steve ever wanted that moulding in the front room refinished, or the drooping ceiling fan replaced. This place is a fixer upper’s dream, and Steve might not even care that Bucky works at half the speed a two-handed carpenter does. Though he can appreciate Steve’s more focused on survival for the time being.

“That’s it?” he asks when Bucky flips the power switch on.

“Gotta wait a few minutes for the pressure to build back up before heat can start circulating, but it should warm up pretty quick after that.”

“I don’t know how to thank you,” says Steve, sounding genuinely put out about it.

“Told you, don’t worry about it. Just…stay warm. And try and go easy on yourself.”

The way Steve bristles at the slightest suggestion of kindness only makes Bucky want to lay it on thicker. It’s _Christmas_ for Christ’s sake.

“You eaten since Nat’s?”

Steve has to think hard enough about his answer that Bucky just assumes not.

He pulls out his phone to scroll through nearby delivery, “Is Golden Wok any good?”

“Y-yeah.”

“Great. What are you having? On me.”

“Bucky, You don’t have to—”

“Steve, _I’m_ starving. You want to thank me? Let me order us some Chinese food. It’s the only decent Christmas tradition I’ve got.”

“Aren’t you ready to get home?”

“Could use a break from the subway, to be honest. And since all I got planned for tomorrow is eating Chinese food with my family, I’m perfectly happy mixing things up with you tonight. If that’s alright?”

“Of course.”

With a resigned sigh, Steve orders the Singapore noodles. Bucky goes a little overboard with appetizers, hoping to leave behind a decent amount of leftovers.

They bring the space heater upstairs with them to make the dining space habitable, and Bucky pretends not to notice Steve surreptitiously tidying, though the combo of Taco Bell wrappers and Bud Light Lime cans give the distinct impression it’s on behalf of a certain roommate.

“How’d you end up living with Clint?”

“Craigslist,” Steve answers flatly.

“Yeah? How’s that working out?”

Steve surprises him with a laugh, “Better than it looks, to be fair. I wish he could make it ten extra steps to the trashcan, but he pays his rent on time and all in all was pretty cool about me freezing him out right before Christmas.”

Bucky doesn’t ask about Steve’s parents. Underneath the debris of bachelorhood, the ghosts of a happy family are palpable, from the dated photos that hang on the wall to the hand painted cookie jar on the table. Whatever reason Steve is without them now is unlikely to be a happy one, and Bucky’s committed to cheering this kid up before they get to trauma bonding.

“How do you know Nat?” asks Steve.

“Oh, we—she, um—dance class.” Bucky isn’t _embarrassed_ , he just isn’t well practiced in talking about his…extracurriculars.

“Dance class?” Steve’s delighted smile isn’t mocking, but definitely could be a precursor to asking for a demonstration.

“Dance _therapy_. Nat teaches at a studio in Flatbush. It’s…not for everyone, but it helped me a lot. And I made some good friends in the process.”

“I didn’t know such a thing existed.”

“Yeah, well I’m a regular encyclopedia of alternative therapies. You ever want to try a VR simulation where you swim the sea floor like a mermaid, I know a guy.”

“You think I need therapy?” Steve asks, more earnest than Bucky might have expected from a guy defensive as a cactus.

“I got no idea, Steve. Not my place to say. I think you could stand to catch a break. Nat offering you a place to stay and me fixing your heat—we’re only trying to lend a hand, not shrink your head.”

“And get me laid,” Steve reminds him, startlingly matter of fact.

The doorbell rings then, leaving Bucky gaping at the table. Neither of them has brought up their conversation the night before, and given Steve’s incredulous reaction Bucky assumed maybe they wouldn’t be.

Steve returns with his arms precariously full, carrying enough food to feed a football team.

Bucky gives a rueful smile, “Hope you’re hungry.”

“Is this a date?” he asks, looking up at Bucky through heavy lashes. The take-out bags get sprawled unceremoniously across the table.

Bucky’s not quite prepared for this version of Steve. It’s like he’s thawing with the room around them, though no less direct. Bucky hasn’t even had a chance to flirt properly.

“N-no? I mean, I would have planned more than delivery.”

“But you’d want to?”

“Go on a date? Yeah. I mean, if _you_ wanted to, yeah.”

“ _Why?_ ”

Steve blusters on before Bucky can work out how to express what an outrageous question that is.

“This isn’t some self-esteem crisis, Bucky. I’ve been sulking at you since we met. It can’t have escaped your notice that I am a house-poor orphan, one broken appliance away from losing it—and you—you seem great. You’ve been very kind and very generous. But a guy like you is bound to have other options. Why are you even interested?”

“All the shit you’re going through? It’s like you think it’s some kind of reflection on you. You aren’t a bad person, Steve. You’re just having a bad time.”

“And you think you can show me a good time?” Steve doesn’t catch the double meaning until the words are out of his mouth, and Bucky can’t help but bark out a laugh at how wide his eyes go.

Bucky wants to steer them back to neutral territory before Steve’s skepticism gets the better of him. Attraction’s a fickle thing, and Bucky doesn’t want to ruin it by trying to explain it, or giving Nat too much credit. Steve’s got pretty eyes and a compelling sort of intensity Bucky wants to knead at like a bruise. If he can distract Steve from the weight of the world for a few hours, he’ll call it a win. If he can kiss that sulk off his mouth at any point in the future, he’ll carve himself a trophy.

“I’m good for Chinese food, anyway…And I’d love to hear more about the history of this house. Not a lot of Depression era builds in Brooklyn.”

They forego plates, eating out of open containers as Steve describes how the walls were once stuffed with newspaper where they ran low on insulation, and when Steve’s mom wanted to repaint the bathroom, she had to strip 14 layers of wallpaper first. Most of Steve’s stories circle back to his Ma, and it’s all Bucky needs to know about why this house is so critically important to him.

Steve gamely answers Bucky’s ultra-specific questions about the electrical wiring and the slope of the rooftop terrace. It’s too cold to go up and take a look, but Steve swears you can get a peek of the Statue of Liberty if you stand on the patio chairs.

He could make a small fortune selling. Private entrance, natural light, a rooftop terrace with views of the harbor in a neighborhood that hasn’t been obscenely gentrified yet? The listing writes itself. It’s pretty clear that’s not an option Steve’s keen to consider, and Bucky doesn’t blame him. A limb’s not really comparable to one’s home, especially when it’s all that’s left of a family. But Bucky knows well the price placed on “pain and suffering” is never really sufficient when limited by something so arbitrary as money.

“I could fix that floorboard for you, you know,” says Bucky, sometime later. It’s bordering on stuffy by now, the radiators humming steadily. They’ve made impressive progress on their feast, but there should be plenty left to get Steve through tomorrow.

“I bet you could.”

“You’d let me?”

“No.”

“Steve—”

“I’d rather,” he sighs, a faint smile on his lips, “I’d rather go on that date.”

Bucky’s big stupid grin is entirely reflexive, “Okay. Let’s do that. I’ll fix it after?”

“I want us to start out even, Bucky.”

“I’m not running a tab, Steve,” he grumbles, mood souring, “I wish you wouldn’t either.”

Bucky hates ruining the moment but they’ll never get anywhere if Steve feels like he has to prove himself every step of the way.

“Think you could teach me how to fix it?” asks Steve, doing his best to extend an olive branch.

Bucky’s takes it eagerly, “I’d be happy to. After drinks, Thursday? I know a place off 2nd.”

“Should we be using power tools under the influence?”

“Mm, good point. Might be a morning after activity.”

Bucky sees the color bloom in Steve’s cheeks, along with a small, satisfying smirk.

There is some further negotiating about the date and time of said drinks, as Steve’s work schedule is appallingly complicated. Bucky can’t avoid his mother’s worried texts for much longer—another round of snow will leave him stranded again if he doesn’t head out soon. He feels a little funny leaving Steve alone on Christmas, even with a banquet of leftovers and a hot date on the books.

“Before you go—” Steve pulls a neatly folded paper from his back pocket, “I know you don’t celebrate, but. I made this. For you.”

Bucky recognizes Nat’s stationary from the little matryoshka dolls lining the top, but not the scene underneath.

“You _drew_ this?” he asks.

“Mhmm. It’s your house.”

It’s not. Bucky lives in the second-floor walk-up of the least remarkable brownstone in Brooklyn, where the window units dangle threateningly over the sidewalk below. This sketch is of a fully detached three-story house with a front porch and pitched roof. Snow covered boxwoods line the steps, and a little menorah glows through the front window.

“Holy shit, it’s my house!” A childhood fantasy he’d rambled on about yesterday, in an attempt to keep boiler flushing fun. He’d drawn a thousand versions of his own as a kid, but never with much skill. “Steve this is—”

“It’s nothing. Just—you know—happy holidays.”

Bucky goes in slow for the hug just in case Steve has actual quills like a porcupine, but he seems receptive if a little confused. Bucky doesn’t care if it’s weird. Steve did something sweet.

“Thank you. I love it.”

“I’ll um, see you next week?” asks Steve, muffled by Bucky’s coat.

“Definitely. Unless the heat goes out again, or your sink starts leaking. Then you text me immediately, and I will come right over. I mean it.”

Steve nods without argument, and it’s such a small victory but Bucky squeezes him that much tighter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I did not spend as much time editing this as I should have considering how long it's been languishing on my laptop, so I promise I won't be mad if you point out any horrible typos.


End file.
